Give It a Year
by cywscross
Summary: Snapshots of the year it took Trident Shamal and Harry Potter to bond over assignments, surgeries, assassinations, and general mayhem. Prequel to Raison d'Être.
1. Ill Met, Well Met

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Harry Potter or Katekyo Hitman Reborn.**

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**Summary:** Snapshots of the year it took Trident Shamal and Harry Potter to bond over assignments, surgeries, assassinations, and general mayhem. Prequel to Raison d'Être.

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**Author's Notes:** Can be read as standalone but it's better if you read at least the first chapter of Raison d'Être first.

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**01. Ill Met, Well Met**

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"Are you with them? Got the short end of the stick?" Was the first thing Shamal asked as he prodded the green-eyed man lying in a pool of his own blood with one shoe.

Said man stared back at him through hooded eyes and a faintly irritated frown, as if Shamal was interrupting his sunbathing or something. "You're going to have to clarify who 'them' are."

The slightest British inflection amongst an amalgam of accents that Shamal couldn't name, all tangled together to form a startling lack of one as the man spoke. Civilian clothes – utterly ruined – with deep injuries under them. Deep, but not fatal.

Probably a prisoner then. Traitors were usually killed right away.

He shrugged and turned to leave. "Doesn't matter then. They're dead and you're free to go. I'd help you but I don't treat men."

Instead of the squawk of indignation and demands for medical aid that Shamal usually got after saying something like that, he received a derisive snort and a grunt of pain as the man pulled himself up into a sitting position and leaned against the nearby wall.

"I don't believe I ever asked for your help," The man drawled with all the aristocratic hauteur of a noble. "Now please move out of the way. You're blocking the light and I can't see anything in here."

More than a little startled but hiding it well, Shamal eyed the Brit one last time before leaving without a backwards glance, picking up his payment along the way before returning to the hotel he was staying at. He checked out the very next day, flirting with the receptionist on his way out and got a slap for his efforts, but he didn't make it halfway to the airport before the injured man that had lingered at the back of his mind since he had finished his latest job rushed back to the forefront of his thoughts.

Shamal really didn't care about the black-haired stranger, and in his line of work, deaths weren't exactly rare, but the man's flippant attitude had spiked his interest. While he wouldn't have healed the man, if he had asked, Shamal would've helped him out of there.

He sighed. Might as well go back to satisfy his curiosity. Check whether the man had managed to get out or not. He wasn't in any hurry anyway.

To his surprise, the stranger was in the exact same place Shamal had left him in, but that wasn't the astounding part. While the floor was still splashed with crimson and the man's clothes looked to be beyond repair, Shamal couldn't see so much as a papercut on him.

The stranger was asleep though and even Shamal had to grimace at the drying blood he was slumped in.

Making a face, he bent down and hauled the man up, and then yelped when the Brit woke with a jolt and whipped out a silver dagger in the time it took Shamal to blink.

"If this is how you thank all the people who try to help you," Shamal voiced dryly as he kept a wary eye on the blade at his throat, his mosquitoes ready to attack at the twitch of a finger. "I can see why you wouldn't want it."

Eyes that still seemed half-asleep (how the hell did someone like that get the drop on him?) squint at him, not suspiciously but as if the man was only trying to recall his face. Recognition dawned a moment later, and to Shamal's surprise, the dagger was removed almost immediately afterwards.

"Thought you didn't treat men," The man remarked mildly.

Shamal didn't lower his guard but his mosquitoes settled as he relaxed again. "I'm not treating you. Don't tell me you hit your head and forgot you healed yourself."

The stranger hummed noncommittally and allowed Shamal to help him limp out of the dilapidated building.

Shamal had seen stranger things than high-speed healing in his life so he didn't ask and the man didn't offer as they reached the clearing outside. As it was, the stranger didn't ask him why he was helping either, and Shamal appreciated it if only because his excuses weren't exactly the best.

"Just prop me against a tree," The Brit said, and Shamal was about to do just that right before his instincts sparked a warning in his head and both of them stiffened and swung to the left.

As luck would have it, the men Shamal had killed apparently had backup and they had chosen now of all times to come back.

"Ah, shit," Shamal sighed, more annoyed than worried as forty or so men all holding handguns appeared out of the nearby forest area, their expressions making it quite clear that they meant a lot of harm.

He spared a second to glance at the Brit currently leaning against a tree, and then twitched. The man actually looked more concerned with the state of his clothes than the surrounding enemies.

Well, maybe the stranger could fight? Judging by the speed in which he had drawn his blade, Shamal could tell that the man had at least some knowledge of fighting. Whether or not it would be enough to survive this was another matter.

He heaved another sigh. He had been the one to bring the Brit out here so he supposed he would have to take responsibility and make sure they both got out alive.

Still, almost four dozen men, all of them holding long-ranged weapons – at least a few of them would get off a shot before his mosquitoes could take them all down. Shamal would be able to dodge but he didn't know if he could say the same for the Brit who didn't look to have even reached his mid-twenties yet.

"Excuse me,"

Shamal blinked, and then snapped his head to the side to stare at the stranger in disbelief. The man was quite clearly hailing the closest enemy, a polite if bland smile on his face.

"I was wondering if you had a change of clothes lying around," The Brit continued, looking apologetic now as he tugged on the torn, bloody shirt he was wearing. "Mine seem to be beyond repair, even for me."

A stilted silence ensued before mocking guffaws filled the clearing.

"What are you doing?" Shamal hissed. "Do you _want_ to get killed?"

"That one's got a screw loose!" One of the newcomers called out. "He ain't gonna be a problem. It's just Trident Shamal we gotta take down!"

Shamal tch'd in thorough irritation as he whirled out of the way of an oncoming bullet, shoving the Brit to the right at the same time. Said bullet embedded itself into the bark where the Brit's head had been a heartbeat ago.

"Stay-" _Down_, Shamal had been about to say, only to realize that the man was no longer there. It took him a bewildering moment to seek out the green-eyed stranger – how the _hell_ had he gotten there – suddenly standing behind a row of gunmen.

Another moment and a flash of silver, and then six men were down, guns scattered beside them and throats slit.

The gunfire abruptly became more panicked, and he had no more time to think on it as he twisted out of the way again and sent his mosquitoes out in a tidal wave.

The battle took five minutes tops, and forty dead bodies later, Shamal was wondering just how the idiots he had killed the day before had managed to capture someone like his temporary field partner.

He had kept an eye on the man throughout the impromptu battle, watched the Brit flicker in and out of sight like some sort of devil's shadow, wielding that silver dagger with lethal precision.

The man was faster than anyone Shamal had ever seen in action (personally, he thought maybe there was some instant teleportation thrown in there as well), and while there had been a subtle frown of distaste on his face, the experience with which the stranger had handled his blade had been undeniable.

"You're very good," Shamal commented as he flipped one of the corpses onto its back. His foot thudded against stone. It looked like the Medusa Syndrome he had created only recently worked like a charm.

"Thank you," The man smiled lazily, removing the blood from his blade with a flick of his wrist and an invisible bend of light around it. Shamal arched an eyebrow at the gleaming silver, not a drop of blood visible.

A Flame-user? But that couldn't be it. He hadn't seen any coloured energy around the Brit.

"Who are you?" He found himself asking as he slipped his hands into his coat pockets and adopted a more laidback posture. Fighting goons two days in a row – he wasn't getting paid enough for this.

"Harry Potter, at your service," The man responded promptly without hesitation. "You can call me Harry."

Shamal almost jumped when a wet cough followed the name and a splash of crimson stained the pale hand that had come up to cover the man's mouth.

"I thought you healed yourself," Shamal barked, a little sharper than he had intended to.

"Mostly," The man, Harry, waved a dismissive hand, the one not tinged with blood. "My lungs haven't quite repaired themselves yet. I'll be fine in a few more hours."

A blink, and then the silver dagger was suddenly whizzing past his left ear. It took him a second to realize that Harry hadn't been aiming for him and the blade wouldn't have so much as nicked him even if he hadn't automatically moved out of the way.

"My apologies," Harry said calmly as Shamal stared contemplatively at the last of the gunmen now lying motionless on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, the dagger sticking out of his throat. "I did not mean to startle you."

It was a perfect throw. Most people consciously or unconsciously aimed at the chest, but there were a million and one things that could go wrong and leave the target alive, if wounded, if you weren't a top professional. The chest cavity was always sturdier than it looked, for all that it was still quite easy to stick something sharp through. But the throat was one of the weakest parts of the human body, not to mention if the weapon had enough strength and accuracy behind it, the spine would also be severed in a single blow.

Considering the odd angle of the mark's neck, Harry definitely had both when he had flung his dagger.

"So," Harry had walked past him and was retrieving his weapon. "Trident Shamal, was it? If you could point me in the direction of the closest city, I would be very grateful. I could even pay you for the trouble."

Shamal shook his head, settling into an easy stance again. "I don't need money. Liverpool's about half an hour that way."

He nodded east, and Harry nodded. "Thank you. For the help and the directions."

And apparently, that was that. The Brit set off in the direction Shamal had gestured at with the same lack of hesitation he had given out his name.

Shamal watched him go for several seconds before setting off after the man. "I could've lied."

"You didn't," Harry called back almost cheerfully.

Despite the rather surreal situation, Shamal found his lips twitching in amusement. "What were you doing out here anyway? I can't see you getting captured by a couple of thugs."

"Hmm?" Harry's strides weren't very fast and Shamal's longer legs caught up within a couple paces. "Ah, I wasn't. I just... got lost. And injured. Injured and lost, and ended up in that building. I worked in a library before though."

Shamal knew an evasive answer when he heard one, no matter how well it was delivered, but it was none of his business so he didn't push.

"So who are you then?" Harry asked this time. "'Trident Shamal'. That some sort of moniker?"

"Close enough," Shamal acknowledged sardonically. "I'm a doctor."

A huff of laughter came from his companion. "A doctor who doesn't treat men? What about children?"

"Only girls," Shamal said at once. His mind momentarily pulled up a memory of Hayato but he shook it off easily enough. The boy was no longer his student, if he ever really was in the first place. He wasn't good with kids.

Harry only hummed and didn't complain about his personal rule as many had done before. Instead, he enquired, "A doctor who can take down twenty-one gunmen without batting an eye?"

"A librarian who can kill twenty-two gunmen just as easily?" Shamal countered.

Harry laughed again. "Touché. You could call me a jack-of-all-trades, I suppose."

Shamal wavered for a moment before mentally shrugging. It didn't really matter – a little digging around on Harry's part would familiarize the Brit with all the rumours surrounding Shamal anyway. "Doctor-assassin."

"An oxymoron," Harry said at once, taking Shamal's disclosure in stride. "Is it difficult?"

Shamal slanted an incredulous look at the Brit. _No one_ had ever asked that before. People usually heard 'assassin' over 'doctor' and those who weren't actually on the same side as he was either ran the other way as fast as possible or tried to kill him. Of all the things he had expected, a poetic device had not been one of them.

"I manage," He said at last, voice light. "Doctor's a boring side job anyway."

"Really?" Curious green eyes peered at him. "Are you any good?"

Shamal scoffed, involuntarily drawing himself up just a little. No one had ever asked that either – they just _knew_. He was Trident Shamal for God's sakes. "Very good."

Harry inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Not just a boring side job then."

Shamal blinked and then sighed. Damn, this guy was one cryptic bastard.

By the time they reached the city, Shamal didn't need a doctor's eye to see that Harry was lagging. Exhaustion lined the Brit's shoulders and his breathing was more than a little laboured.

Still, the man was unfailingly polite. "Could you direct me to the nearest hotel? I don't mind the cost."

Wordlessly, Shamal nodded and led him to the same hotel he had been staying at for the past few days. Luckily, the woman who had slapped him earlier was no longer on duty.

He paused at the entrance, glancing critically at his companion who was, oddly enough, garnering no attention at all.

"Are you doing something?" Shamal enquired, scanning the rush of people around them who all seemed to be able to avoid bumping into Harry even though they clearly couldn't see him. "No one's even glanced at you."

Harry shrugged. "It's easy for me to remain hidden. Out of sight, out of mind."

"You're not out of sight," Shamal pointed out wryly as they entered the Britannia Adelphi.

"But I am out of mind," Harry replied with a sly smile before turning to the receptionist at the counter. The woman jerked a bit as if startled by the Brit's presence, but Shamal noted the fact that she didn't seem to see Harry's clothes at all or she'd be screaming murder.

Harry smiled charmingly at the woman, and whatever she was seeing made her blush. "A single room pl-"

"A twin suite," Shamal interrupted before he could stop himself. He paused, gaze flitting to Harry's surprised expression and the receptionist's uncertain one as she looked between the two of them.

Shamal had no idea what had come over him. Really, he should be heading for the airport now, catching a flight back to Italy and home for some rest before the next job cropped up.

But there was something about Harry that piqued his interest. The Brit hadn't even known he was near Liverpool – Shamal had had to point that out – and there was that not noticing thing in the middle of the busy streets outside. The man could be Mist-oriented but Shamal had his own Mist flames and he was sure he would've sensed something.

"What he said," Harry said, and Shamal arched an eyebrow at the easy acquiescence. "A twin suite please. Three days for now."

"I'll pay two-thirds," Shamal promised after enduring three floors of awkward silence in the elevator. The twin suite was significantly more expensive than a single room, but the twin room had only one bedroom with two beds and neither of them would be very comfortable with that.

At least Shamal wouldn't; Harry seemed wholly unconcerned about everything thus far.

The Brit waved a hand. "Half and half. I'm not short for money."

As they entered their new home for the next several days, Shamal couldn't decide whether he was more amused or unnerved.

Was it normal for people to be this calm about sharing a hotel room with an assassin?

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	2. Mad as a Hatter

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Harry Potter or Katekyo Hitman Reborn.**

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**02. Mad as a Hatter**

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"Is this a thing for you?" Harry enquired politely as they ran down the hallway.

Shamal shot him a dirty look before hauling him through a door marked 'Employees Only', shutting and locking it behind both of them.

It had been five days since they had first met, and in a rare turn of events, Shamal had ended up sticking around for more than the three days they had first agreed upon. Even rarer, the latest job Shamal had taken, the one which had kicked off this whole mess to begin with (and he was beginning to _really_ wish he hadn't taken the job if only so he wouldn't have met his new acquaintance), had turned out to be one of the few that Shamal should probably have been a little more careful with when carrying it out.

As it was, the people backing the idiots he had assassinated had sent even more backup and the Britannia Adelphi was now currently being held captive at gunpoint while Shamal, and by extension Harry, were being hunted down. To make matters worse, there were about a dozen police cars outside (hey, he never said his enemies were subtle) surrounding the building and futilely shouting for the hired hands to 'stand down or there would be consequences'.

Frankly, Shamal wished they would just get on with it. They were already here – might as well make themselves at least somewhat useful and jump right on to the consequences bit.

"No it's not a thing," Shamal growled, aggravated. It wasn't even seven yet – couldn't the contract killers have waited a few more hours? "I got careless. Hell, I should've left this country five days ago."

"Why didn't you?" Harry asked, wandering over to a side counter and, to Shamal's dumbfounded disbelief, pulled out a coffee maker from one of the shelves and proceeded to make himself a pot.

"This whole stalking venture of yours won't be very successful, you know," The Brit continued blithely when Shamal failed to respond.

"No worries, I'm not stalking you," Shamal shot back dryly. "…What are you doing?"

"Making coffee," Harry answered promptly. "Want a cup?"

Shamal opened his mouth to say no, to tell the clearly crazy Brit that they had bigger things to worry about at the moment, and then he paused, closed his mouth, thought about it, and sighed, sinking down into one of the rickety chairs.

"Yeah, I could use one," Shamal acquiesced, dragging a tired hand through his hair. "Two sugars."

Harry hummed in acknowledgement. Shamal didn't have the energy to question the man for his lack of sanity. He himself didn't have much room to talk, and mornings were never his forte anyway. Might as well get some caffeine into his system before he figured out how to go about dealing with the hitmen and police outside.

**{2}**

In the end, it wasn't all that hard. Somehow or other, and before Shamal could stop him, Harry had slipped out of the room they had taken temporary refuge in and then returned mere minutes later, all of Shamal's belongings in hand.

"I'm not even going to ask," Shamal sighed as he shrugged on his coat. "…Thanks."

Harry nodded, his entire frame still utterly relaxed. "Now what?"

Shamal shot him a cursory glance. "'Now what'? I'm fairly certain you could get out of here all by yourself without breaking a sweat. Why are you waiting?"

Harry smiled winningly at him. "That wouldn't be any fun."

Shamal fought the urge to close his eyes.

"Nevermind then," He said, shutting off the part of his brain that couldn't decide whether or not he was amused and slipping into the calculating assurance of his assassin side instead.

He could count on at least a dozen enemies in the lobby, and while he could simply kill all of them, really, it was just a waste. Of his mosquitoes. So the front door was out.

There would be people guarding the elevators and the stairwells but they could be bypassed easily if need be. And the other exits would all be watched, windows included, but again, they could be taken out.

The main problem was the hostage situation. Sneaking out was easy – it was making sure the hired guns left the hotel alone but didn't come after them that would be the hard part.

His mind flickered through several plans in the next few seconds, discarding one after another as he poked holes through each of them.

And then, with another sigh, Shamal cocked his head at the door. "Let's go. We take down as many as we can without causing a scene, then lead the rest away on a fake trail while we head to the airport. Unless you… live in England?"

He wasn't sure if he should be worried when Harry only eyed him with increasing amusement. "No, I don't. How is this fake trail going to work then?"

Shamal allowed a brief smirk to surface on his face. "Tell you later. Assassinations first."

Harry swept a shallow mock-bow before heading for the door. Shamal rolled his eyes and followed him out. Well, on the bright side, this shouldn't take very long.

**{2}**

"You didn't kill any of them," Shamal commented idly as he watched their doubles, forged from his own Mist flames, sprint down the street and away from the hotel, all the conscious mercenaries running after them as the police split into two groups, the first half streaming into the hotel to arrest the comatose or dead gunmen while the other half took off after the escaping criminals.

"It wasn't necessary," Harry said, unconcerned as he dangled his legs over the side of the roof. Standing beside him, Shamal flicked a finger, cloaking them with his flames – something else he had noticed; Harry hadn't been at all surprised by the appearance of his indigo flames – before motioning towards the stairs.

"Let's go," He hefted his suitcase. "I've had about enough of England. Where are you headed anyway?"

Harry tilted his head back, peering up at Shamal. "What, not going to stalk me anymore?"

Shamal glowered at him. "For your information, I only like women. There is absolutely nothing about you that would make me want to follow you around."

"And yet here we are," Harry grinned. "Five days since we met and still hanging around each other."

Shamal snorted, pausing to gather his thoughts before admitting grudgingly, "I've never met anyone as calm as you were when you were lying in a pool of your own blood, and then turn right around the next day and kill two dozen men _after_ asking them for fresh clothes. You were interesting, and I had nothing better to do."

"Hmm," Harry shifted, gaze moving back to the skyline in the distance. "You're going back to Italy, I suppose?"

Shamal grunted an affirmative. "It's where I live. …You?"

Harry's mouth twisted a little. "I don't live anywhere. I'm a… traveler, you could say."

Shamal studied the Brit for a long moment. He had had a feeling about that for a while now. With the way Harry had checked into the hotel without any long-term plans and hadn't made any move to call anyone, Shamal had assumed that no one was really expecting him to be anywhere anytime soon.

A buzz against his ribs distracted him and he silently withdrew his cell, one eyebrow ticking up when he saw the text.

'NO INFO FOUND ON HP.'

No information? None of his contacts had managed to get anything?

That was new.

His gaze slid over to the Brit again. Like any person with half a brain and a background in shady dealings, Shamal had swiftly shot off a few messages to his various contacts all across Europe to do a little digging on Harry, a background check and perhaps pull up whatever past infractions that the younger man had on his rap sheet.

But nothing? Not even a school record or a parking ticket? That was impossible.

"You can come with me," Shamal said before he could stop himself, curiosity getting the better of him. Green eyes flashed back to him, sharp and focused all of a sudden. "Back to Italy. If you've got nothing to do and no place to go."

Harry blinked at him. "Charity, Shamal?"

Shamal scoffed. "If I had enough of a heart for charity, I'd donate to orphanages. Now are you coming or not?"

Harry stared at him contemplatively for a second longer before footsteps broke the silence between them.

Shamal swore under his breath as he heard the muffled voices of fourteen policemen trooping up the stairs leading to the roof. Killing criminals was something he did on a monthly basis; killing officers of the law – and in a foreign country at that – was just troublesome. His Mist flames would hold for a while but they had never been very strong – it was why he relied on his mosquitoes and scalpels and, on occasion, dynamite.

He jerked when a hand clamped around his wrist.

"What-" He started, and got no further as Harry smiled enigmatically at him and promptly yanked him over the side of the roof, seven floors above solid concrete.

Shamal didn't even have the time to holler his alarm before their descent abruptly slowed several feet from the ground and drifted the rest of the way, coming to a gentle rest beside a couple who didn't seem to notice the two men who had just landed from the sky.

"You're crazy," Shamal informed his companion faintly as they strolled down the street in the direction of the airport. "Completely insane."

Harry had the gall to look entirely indifferent to his plight. "Don't be a baby – it was only seven floors."

"_Only_?" Shamal scowled. So, alright, he had jumped up to twenty floors before, with the aid of a few mosquitoes, diamond edged scalpels, and a touch of his flames, but _not_ with only a lunatic attached to his wrist and little else.

"Don't be so grumpy," Harry admonished. "You're old enough without putting more lines on your face."

One heartbeat. Two.

"I'm_ thirty-three_," Shamal snapped, strangling the urge to do the Brit serious harm. "And you're a damn _brat_."

Harry just smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes. You sure you still want me around then?"

Shamal didn't stop walking but he did slant a speculative look at the Brit. "You want to come? I've put up with worse people than you and they're still alive. Mostly."

Harry snorted as they stepped up to a curb and hailed a taxi. "You take to people very quickly."

_No I don't,_ Shamal corrected mentally. _You're just an anomaly. A man who doesn't exist? Now that's something I don't see every day._

Out loud, he only pointed out jokingly, "It's not like we're going to end up partners in business or something. I work alone. But if you need a place to stay for awhile, you might as well come with me."

Harry didn't answer right away, simply looking at him with a searching gaze for a long moment.

"Well," Harry murmured, leaning back in the backseat of the taxi as the driver zoomed towards the airport. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth and all that."

A wicked grin tipped the Brit's mouth and Shamal wondered if he should start worrying about his own sanity.

"Congratulations, Trident Shamal," Harry said brightly. "You've just acquired a new houseguest."

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	3. Trouble at Every Corner

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Harry Potter or Katekyo Hitman Reborn.**

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**03. Trouble at Every Corner**

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Shamal didn't know if it was a sudden bout of bad luck on his part or if his new tagalong was simply a trouble magnet. What he _did_ know was that the plane they were on – a simple two-hour flight with Vueling Airlines from Liverpool to Venice; what could _possibly_ go wrong? – had been _hijacked_.

Seriously, who the hell hijacked planes nowadays? This wasn't a spy movie!

"HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!" One of the hijackers bellowed from the back, complete with ski mask and black clothing.

God, Shamal felt _embarrassed_ for them.

Sighing, he returned to his newspaper as most of the other passengers cowered and obeyed. He hadn't had time to catch up on the world news recently, not that he was missing a great deal – there was only so much global misery he could take in any one sitting.

"I SAID HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!"

Shamal peered over the top of his paper, frowning at the man currently pointing a gun at his head. "You couldn't have hijacked the next plane? Or the plane before? You just _had_ to hijack this one and now you have the nerve to tell me what to do?"

"Now, now, Shamal," Harry drawled absently from beside him, more focused on flipping through a pamphlet about Venice than anything else. "You have to act scared and everything. It's not good for the bloke's self-esteem if you don't do as you're told."

"I don't want to hear that from _you_," Shamal snapped back irritably. Damn it, whatever Harry had must be contagious. He wasn't usually this… like _this_. Normally – not that being on a hijacked plane was normal; this was a first, even for him – he would've followed everyone else's example and kept his head down until an opportunity presented itself and he could take out the threat.

At the moment though, he was feeling just a bit rebellious.

Wonderful.

"I _SAID_! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!" The hijacker hollered once more, sounding increasingly hysterical.

Shamal and Harry both chorused on reflex, "We heard you the first time!"

The man's face purpled, and the gun he was holding fluctuated wildly between Shamal and Harry.

Shamal silently scoffed. Amateur mistake right there.

"The hell are ya doin', Wallace?!" One of the others yelled from across the plane. "We're on a schedule! Just knock those two out or shoot 'em and get it over with!"

Shamal heaved another sigh and surreptitiously directed one of his mosquitoes to the Amateur Wallace's neck, injecting the man with a dose of the Permafrost Syndrome before he could do more than tighten his finger on the trigger of his gun.

Three heartbeats later, the hijacker dropped like a stone, gun clattering uselessly to the ground as his eyes – the only visible part of his body, took on a pale blue tinge.

A shocked hush shrouded the entire plane. Shamal frowned thoughtfully. Maybe that was overkill?

"Which disease was that?" Harry enquired from beside him, sounding clinically intrigued as he studied the body now slumped on the ground.

"Permafrost Syndrome," Shamal answered promptly, eyeing his temporary companion for any signs of trauma or disgust or fear and finding none. "Basically freezes the victim's blood."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Maybe you should rename it – it sounds more pretty than harmful. And overkill much?"

Shamal scratched his head. "Yeah, just a bit."

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO HIM?!" One of the other hijackers screeched as a few of the passengers began screaming. The man's gun dipped as he lurched towards their fallen comrade, leaving him wide open.

Several things happened at once.

A cold spike of killing intent that Shamal was more than familiar with in his line of work suddenly reared up from somewhere behind him, and any humour he had found in this situation fled as he automatically clamped a hand around Harry's wrist and crowded him against the wall of the plane, discreetly summoning his mosquitoes forward at the same time.

"Shamal?" Harry looked puzzled at being manhandled but Shamal knew genuine danger when he felt it, and before he could point it out to Harry or even wonder whether or not the Brit could feel the dangerous presence himself, a blur of black and blue sprang out of nowhere, wind and lethal movement rushing past him and descending upon the hapless hijackers without mercy.

Within the next few minutes, the rest of the gunmen were being taken down in a rain of glinting needles that the newcomer was throwing out with deadly accuracy. Most of the hijackers didn't even have time to scream as they faltered against the relentless onslaught.

Shamal's eyes narrowed on the black-haired man currently twisting away from a blast of gunfire that spewed from one of the frantic hijackers' weapons. More screams rented the air as the other passengers all but plastered themselves to the floor.

So these men were the Chinese Triads' prey, were they?

"Do you know him?" Harry murmured at his shoulder.

Shamal nodded, keeping a wary eye on the assassin. Clad in a dark blue kimono with a red phoenix design sewn into one side and sporting black hair that just brushed the nape of his neck, the man flipped into the air with easy grace, landing behind one of the gunmen and swiftly stabbing a single silver needle into his victim's neck before moving on to his next target.

"Yong-Liang Kou," Shamal muttered quietly. "An assassin for the Chinese Triads. People call him the Devil's Squall. And I just took down one of his targets."

Harry glanced at the frozen figure on the ground. "He was about to shoot us."

Shamal shrugged. "Yeah, but the Triad guys are picky about this sort of thing. Ah shit, this just isn't my day, is it?"

The last hijacker dropped to the ground with a somewhat sickening thud, and as the Chinese assassin finally paused and didn't fling out anymore needles, Shamal took the opportunity to give Harry's shoulder a cautionary squeeze to _stay put_ before standing up, hands held loosely at his side as Kou's head snapped around and slate-grey eyes scanned and recognized him in the time it took for Shamal to step forward, still relaxed but ready to defend himself if need be.

Luckily, he wasn't dealing with an overly-arrogant moron, and while Kou's features remained icy and blank, the man didn't make any move to attack Shamal.

"Shamal," Kou inclined his head in the barest gesture of respect before his gaze sliced over to the man Shamal had taken out.

"Kou," Shamal returned lazily. "Long time no see. Didn't know these were yours."

Kou just stared back without expression. Frankly, it was just a little creepy. "Can you fix him?"

Neither commented on the fact that the Chinese assassin had just made the fallen gunman sound like a piece of broken machinery, and they also disregarded the slightly insulting fact that Kou had questioned Shamal's abilities in the first place. After all, Shamal wasn't one of the best – if not _the_ best – doctor in the eastern hemisphere underworld for being _un_able to 'fix' people _he_ took down.

Shamal kept the stir of annoyance under wraps and a careless languor in his stance as he flicked out the proper mosquito and brought the seemingly dead man back to life. The Permafrost Syndrome could be reversed with its opposite if applied within five minutes of each other.

The man on the floor abruptly gasped and convulsed, teeth chattering and unbidden whimpers slipping from his throat.

Shamal ignored him and glanced back at Kou instead. "All yours."

Kou grunted, and a single needle to the back of the hijacker's neck promptly put the man under much like his comrades.

"Is the pilot still alive?" Shamal asked offhandedly, paying no mind to the resulting whimpers of the other passengers when they heard him.

Kou nodded curtly, picking up the hijacker and dumping him with the heap of unconscious bodies near the front.

Shamal sighed. There was reticent, and then there was _reticent_. Kou had always been the latter. That one time half a decade back when they had been contracted together on a mission given to them by some mafia boss in the States, Shamal had booked it the moment they had cashed in. Spending lengthy amounts of time with an assassin who insisted on heavy silences and pretty much taking on their enemies alone at every given opportunity wasn't something he particularly looked forward to.

Shamal was more laidback than most, especially for someone operating in the underworld, but he preferred pulling his own weight and _not_ needing to follow someone else's lead just to make sure they didn't kick the bucket because they refused to extend a tiny measure of trust to their partner, however temporary. As it was, while Kou had been able to fend off most adversaries by himself, Shamal had still had to waste a dozen mosquitoes and a handful of scalpels to haul the Chinese assassin's ass out of a tight spot, something that could've been avoided if Kou had learned to share.

And then the bastard had had the gall to tell him that he could've handled it by himself.

Needless to say, that had been the first and last time Shamal had ever worked with anyone from the Chinese Triads. He didn't need uptight brats – because no matter how you cut it, Kou was still eleven years his junior – running around and pretending they could take on the world alone, even if they were genuine prodigies.

(At the back of his mind, a voice told him that he made a pretty bad argument what with the fact that he was currently in the process of bringing home a twenty-four-year-old-at-most tagalong. Shamal kindly told that voice to shut up.)

With another sigh, he meandered back to his seat, careful to keep an attentive eye on the other assassin on the plane. As if sensing that the real danger was over, some of the passengers slowly crawled out from under their seats, all sending jittery looks at either Shamal or Kou or both. Oddly enough, nobody really gave Harry more than a passing glance.

"Can they actually see you?" Shamal enquired as he leaned back and endeavoured to ignore the frightened stares he was getting.

Harry, having clambered back in his seat even after Shamal had pushed him to the ground and told him to stay there just in case Kou had misunderstood and decided to take out the unsuspected competition, was actually flipping through his brochure again. Shamal mentally rolled his eyes and left him to it.

"Yes," Harry glanced up distractedly. "But seeing and observing are two different things."

The Brit paused in his perusal of the pamphlet and a faint smile tilted his lips. "Would you like me to do that for you?"

Shamal slanted a cursory glance at a few of the passengers who were either very brave or very stupid and were not-so-subtly taking out their phones and looking to be about to snap a picture of Shamal.

"Probably best," He accepted, and a moment later, a strange rush of warmth washed over him. He flicked another look at the passengers but all of them now had vaguely bewildered expressions on their faces, and the phones were either put away or angled in Kou's direction instead. Fortunately for the Chinese assassin, one cold glare was enough to deter the civilians.

"Thanks," Shamal picked up the newspaper he had been reading and cracked it open again. Hopefully, this would be the last excitement he'd see for the day.

**{3}**

He should've known it was too much to ask.

"Kou, don't you have a superior to report in to?" Shamal asked irritably as he led Harry off the bus they had taken from the airport. "Or someone to kill?"

Behind them, the Chinese assassin dogged their steps, hands folded in his sleeves and his features as neutrally cold as usual.

The quiet amusement that Harry was all but radiating did not help.

"If you would simply oblige by telling me what you were doing on that plane, I will be more than happy to part ways," Kou returned evenly.

"And I _told_ you it was a coincidence!" Shamal snapped. Not for the first time, he cursed Venice for being such a car-free city, but it was a nice place to relax, and Shamal needed that after some of the jobs he took on.

"I do not believe in coincidence," Kou informed him coolly.

"Good to hear, you paranoid monkey," Shamal retorted sourly. "Unfortunately, it really was just a coincidence."

"Trident Shamal happening to be in the same area as thirteen marks I have been tracking for the past two months and you would call this a coincidence?" It sounded less a question and more a statement embedded with a note of skepticism.

"Yes I would," Shamal said shortly, finally pulling up at a street corner and turning to face the other assassin. He allowed something more serious slip forward into the open, narrowing his eyes in warning. Like hell he was going to let any assassins find out where he lived.

"I understand you're doing your job, Squall," Shamal said flatly. "But I've answered your questions. Believe me, don't believe me – I don't care, but I'm drawing the line here. Don't cross it."

Kou stared at him and Shamal stared right back. It was twenty years too early for the damn brat to even think about intimidating him.

As Shamal expected, the Chinese assassin backed down, albeit grudgingly, mouth a thin slash on his face as he acquiesced with a terse nod.

Shamal eased up on the edge of killing intent he had summoned forth and offered an airy smile. "Great. Good luck on delivering your marks back to your boss."

He glanced to his left. "Harry, let's- Harry?"

He stiffened imperceptibly when he found his companion gone, and rapidly searched his surroundings for a head of messy black.

"Over there," Kou spoke up, and Shamal could swear there was just the slightest thread of mockery in the assassin's voice. "You should keep better track of your... friend."

Shamal tossed him an annoyed frown but let it go and strode off towards the gelato parlour that Harry was now flitting around in, looking honest-to-God like an overgrown kid as he quizzed the bemused vendor on the numerous flavours.

It took Shamal a moment longer to register the fact that Harry was speaking in rapid-fire Italian. On hindsight, he wasn't sure why he was surprised.

_La Boutique del Gelato_ was miraculously people-free today but Shamal wasn't going to complain. As it was, he simply stationed himself inside the doorway and watched the Brit bounce around for a few minutes longer before placing his order.

"Here, my treat."

Shamal blinked when a gelato cone was thrust in his face. "...Coffee-flavoured?"

"You're a coffee person," Harry raised his own cone. "And can you believe it? They have tiramisu here!"

Shamal smiled wryly, biting into the dessert. "I'm guessing you're a tiramisu person then? It's not that rare in Northern Italy, you know."

"Signore?" The owner called out.

Shamal arched an eyebrow when Harry hurried back to the counter and paid for a third cone. "Hungry today?"

"Oh it's not for me," Harry grinned, a spark of mischief lighting up his features and putting Shamal on edge, and before he could stop the Brit, the shorter man had swept past him and out the door.

"Hi there," Harry greeted a certain Triad affiliate who, for some reason, was _still_ lurking about outside. "A blueberry gelato – the colour matches your clothes. Try it."

Shamal closed his eyes, told himself that this was all just a very bizarre nightmare, and then opened his eyes again.

Nope. Still there.

He heaved a long-suffering sigh and squashed the urge to go bang his head against the nearest wall as he made his way over to the pair. He didn't like where this was heading. At all.

The only sign of Kou's surprise was a slight widening of his eyes for a fraction of a second as Harry somehow forced the gelato cone into the assassin's hand.

"I do not eat ice-cream," Kou said in a monotone.

"Good thing that's not ice-cream then," Harry said cheerfully before starting on his own gelato. "Go on; try it. I swear I haven't poisoned it."

A crease appeared at the assassin's brow and Shamal picked up the smallest hint of discomfort, as if Kou hadn't the faintest clue how to proceed.

Shamal promptly changed his mind. This might not be so bad after all.

"Or you can just hold on to it for me," He added, waving his own gelato. "I'll eat it after I finish this."

For all his chilly demeanour and moody mannerisms, the brat was still a brat, and while he might've matured somewhat from back when he was seventeen, Shamal nonetheless knew what buttons to push.

Kou directed a shadow of a sneer in his direction without delay. "I would not want you to get fat in your old age, Shamal."

Shamal let the insult pass, smirking behind his cone instead as Kou took an experimental bite of the gelato.

"Is it good?" Harry enquired, seemingly oblivious to the underlying tension in the air.

Kou actually fumbled for a reply for a nanosecond. "It is satisfactory," The man finally said stoically.

Shamal snorted. Whoever raised this kid should be shot.

But Harry only smiled as if Kou had given the dessert a five-star rating before dragging them off to go sightseeing.

Eight minutes later, they were sitting in a gondola with Harry peering up at the Bridge of Sighs as they drifted under it and Shamal keeping one watchful eye on the Brit in case he toppled out of the boat.

Though if Harry really did fall out, it would probably be on purpose.

"Why the hell are you still here?" Shamal enquired, more to break the stilted silence between himself and the Chinese assassin than anything else. Harry was having fun chatting with the gondolier.

Kou threw him an acidic look from where he sat on the other end of the gondola, somehow giving the impression of grace and awkwardness at the same time. "If you recall, I did not have a choice in the matter."

Shamal cocked an eyebrow. "The Devil's Squall couldn't shake off a civilian's invitation to go sightseeing? Now that I find hard to believe."

Kou glowered at him without moving a single facial muscle. "I can accept that your timing on the plane was a coincidence but there is nothing you can say to make me believe that that man is _just_ a civilian."

Shamal remained languidly impassive. Ah, so that was why the damn brat was so persistent today. Kou was perceptive on a bad day – the assassin had probably been able to see through whatever illusion Harry had thrown over them on the plane and it had made Kou curious.

Well, Shamal certainly wasn't going to make it easy for him.

However, before he could redirect the conversation, something tingled at the edge of his senses, a flash of danger that put him on high alert. Judging by the flicker of Kou's eyes, the Chinese assassin had felt it too. Neither reacted outwardly as Shamal tilted his head back and casually scanned the rooftops on either side of them, spotting several shadows that shouldn't be there.

This was exactly why he never took gondola rides.

He shifted and knocked his knee against Harry's. Maybe they should've worked out a few signs between them?

But Harry's knee tapped back against his and a glimpse of sharp green told Shamal that the Brit had understood.

Exactly five and a half seconds later, Kou rolled left, Shamal rolled right, Harry leapt forward at the gondolier, and all four disappeared beneath the water just as gunfire erupted around them.

With a sharp tug, Shamal flipped the gondola so that they'd have some cover while they breathed. The spluttering gondolier was looking increasingly panicked but a few soothing words from Harry and a flash of blue seemed to calm the civilian down enough for him to nod when Harry told him to use the gondola for cover as he swam to safety.

"We gotta get out of here," Shamal said when Harry turned away from the gondolier. "They're probably here for me or Kou but I can't take all of them down from this far away."

"I am a mid-to-close-ranged specialist," Kou said stiffly from Shamal's other side as they treaded water. "The snipers are too far away."

"We should get to shore first," Harry suggested, and a wave of one wet hand sent shivering warmth thrumming through Shamal. "They'll only see our after-images now. Doesn't make us bulletproof though if their aim is bad."

Kou was staring down at himself as if that would unearth whatever Harry had done.

Shamal kicked him in the leg. "Come on, Squall, _move_. We're sitting ducks here!"

Kou automatically glared before ducking underwater and swiftly disappearing from sight with a powerful kick of his legs.

"I'll go last," Harry said before Shamal could volunteer, and Shamal had to take a moment to remind himself that the unassuming Brit could more than handle himself in a fight before nodding and following Kou's lead.

Bullets whizzed past him several feet away as Shamal struck out for dry land. He had to weave to the side a few times to avoid some of them but apart from a torn sleeve, he managed to reach one canal side and haul himself out, ducking for cover even as the snipers continued shooting at the water.

Seconds later, Harry also appeared, dripping wet and blinking water from his eyes, but the Brit paused and turned back for a moment instead of scrambling for cover. A snap of his fingers later, three snipers toppled from the rooftops with frightened shouts and hit the canal with giant splashes.

Shamal raised his eyebrows, shrugging his coat off as he made sure his suitcase was still waterproof. "Handy magic tricks."

"Thank you," Harry chirped, running a hand through his hair and leaving a near-sizzling heat behind as something invisible dried him off.

Shamal almost stumbled back when a blast of warmth hit him, and he twitched when he lifted a hand and found his hair sticking up every which way.

"Thanks," Shamal said dryly, trying to flatten his hair again.

Harry grinned before nodding over his shoulder. Shamal turned and then clamped down on a startled bark of laughter.

Kou was standing several feet away and glaring holes into both of them. The reason for that would be the porcupine-like black hair he now sported, looking partly like some sort of street punk.

Harry had no compunctions about snickering, even when a blaze of gunfire ripped up a line of pavement behind them.

"Time to go," Shamal said, not quite able to hide his amusement even as he pushed Harry in front of him and the three of them took off down the street.

_For a day crammed with so many things gone wrong,_ Shamal mused as they flew past shops and restaurants and navigated through the back alleys. _It wasn't so bad._

**{3}**

Half an hour, three dead bodies, nine comatose ones, and a chase on foot through the streets of Venice later, Shamal was ready to take it back. This _had_ to rank in at least his Top Five bad days of his entire life.

"You – get lost," Shamal ordered from his sprawled position at the edge of a rooftop. "And take your friends with you."

It had turned out that the snipers and other pursuers had all been after Kou, or rather, after Kou's targets. For a couple of bad guys, and bad bad guys at that, the thirteen hijackers had a ridiculous bounty on their heads.

Kou eyed him disdainfully, tucking away the last of his needles as, down below, the Venetian police rounded up the last of the hitmen. Shamal still had no idea where Kou had stowed the hijackers.

"What is your name?"

Shamal glanced up and found Kou's attention entirely focused on the last member of their party. "Don't you already know?"

He was pointedly ignored.

"Harry Potter," Harry extended a hand, and to Shamal's growing astonishment, the Chinese assassin deigned to shake it after a short, contemplative silence.

"I am Yong-Liang Kou," Kou's eyes narrowed. "I will not forget you."

Shamal stifled a sigh. That was as good as a 'next time we meet, it had better be on opposite sides so I can fight you'. It was to be expected. Kou was good, but Harry's effortless display of strength, especially when coupled with the knife he had pulled out earlier, far outstripped the assassin's current level. Even Shamal had been hard-pressed to see anything other than slashes of silver before the enemies they had been facing had fallen at the Brit's feet.

Harry smiled, carefree and guileless. It made Shamal wonder just who it was he had picked up in Middle-of-Nowhere, England.

"I won't forget you either," Harry returned. "You're not half-bad with those needles of yours."

Kou's eyes narrowed even further but said nothing in the end, nodding brusquely at both of them before taking two steps to the left and leaping off the roof. Another second and the assassin had disappeared into the shadows as if he had never been there in the first place.

"Interesting bloke," Harry commented, getting to his feet and dusting his pants off. "Now then, are we heading back to your place?"

Shamal got to his feet with a groan, stretching his muscles out as he rose. "We would've been there hours ago if you weren't such a trouble magnet. If _every_ day is going to be like this one, I just might commit suicide."

Harry just laughed and patted his shoulder, not quite as sympathetic as Shamal would've liked.

"Oh don't worry," Harry settled on a decidedly foreboding grin. "You'll get used to it."

* * *

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